“Ma…Please Don’t Tell This to Papa”

I quitted last year my habit of smoking, which I had continued for a period spanning some three years. I don’t know actually how much nicotine had I consumed and what percentage of my lungs is tar coated. But for sure, I still am a smoker, for in every friend group that I happened to be a part, a major number of people are habitual smokers and I am damn sure that you learned readers are aware of the two types of smoking, viz, active and passive.

This incident occurred during my study time at MG University campus. For easy reach, we friends hired a house close to the campus, which was about one hour away from my home, by vehicle. Miraculously, I was the only smoker among my roommates and I still remember the friendly faces of the owners of our house, though much of the incidents occurred at that time have gone beyond the clouds of forgetfulness now. On weekends I used to travel back to my home by bus and for two days, viz., Saturday and Sunday every week I had to control my addiction for smoking as my family did not know about the wretched habit. On this particular Friday evening, it was drizzling slightly, which is, you smokers know, a very tempting occasion for lighting a cigar. After reaching the bus station near my home I purchased one cigarette and kept it in my bag. Only my mother was there when I reached home and after exchanging a few words I went to my room. After closing the door, (note that I did not lock it), I took out the cigarette from my pocket and found out a matchbox from somewhere. It was raining heavily outside, and through the windows, chilly mist and water drops together had been entering inside. I hesitated a little, though I could not deny my blood’s strengthening addiction for consuming the deadly tobacco. My intention thickened and I lit the cigarette. After a few hesitant intakes of smoke I just left my inhibitions and with no more confusion I began to smoke walking in a majestic way pretending as if I am Amitabh Bachchan himself. Suddenly I heard a crackling voice at the door. With no notice, my mother rushed in to take something from my room. I just hid the cigarette at my back. My mother caught the smell of smoke and she asked, as if she was innocent, “What is this smell? Is something burning? Do you smoke?” Though I was sure that I was caught with red hand, I said, “No!” “Show me you hands,” my mother asked. I understood that there were no means of escape left and I showed my hands. A partially finished cigarette had been still burning in between my fingers. My mother became desperate, she asked, “Oh! When did you start this habit? Don’t you know this is hazardous?” I smelt a danger. I couldn’t predict what would happen if my father came to know this. So I pleaded her showing my two palms at her in a way to protect me from this piteous state, “Ma, please my father shouldn’t know this…please don’t tell him.” I remember, my voice was so pathetic and piteous at that time. She promised that she wouldn’t tell it to my father. Two weeks later, my elder sister came home. As it was a holiday, I too was in the home. I was sitting in the front and reading something. Then I suddenly heard somebody speaking a familiar phrase in a familiar voice. I identified it was my sister, who had been imitating my own voice. When I looked at her, she said hilariously after glancing at me, “Ma, please my father shouldn’t know this, please don’t tell him”. After a pause, she again repeated the same words several times, each time giving stress, pitch and intonation to different words, so that she gets the complete satisfaction in imitating me and terrifying me. My father was somewhere over there and was about to make an appearance towards the middle of us. My mother had kept her promise. She hadn’t told it to my FATHER. Instead, she had said it to my sister. Not only that I smoked, but also how piteous was my state when I was caught red-handedly. Everybody knows, if my mother reveals something about ME to my sister, no minutes are left to reach it at my father’s ears. (Image: Amitabh Bachchan in Don, Courtesy: www.goamitabh.com)